


The Haunting Hour

by Howling_Harpy



Category: Band of Brothers
Genre: Fluff, M/M, Melancholy, Post-Canon, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-03
Updated: 2019-10-03
Packaged: 2020-11-23 03:01:12
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 499
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20885036
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Howling_Harpy/pseuds/Howling_Harpy
Summary: An old war wound aches.





	The Haunting Hour

**Author's Note:**

> I was suffering from writer's block when my friend gave me this idea. 
> 
> Disclaimer: This is a piece of fiction based on the HBO drama series and the actors’ portrayals in it. This has nothing to do with any real person represented in the series, makes no money, and means no disrespect.

The rustle of the sheets and covers alone were enough to make Ron stir in his sleep. He didn’t quite enter a conscious state, but he was dimly aware of the dark room around him and the spot next to him being vacant. It was pitch dark outside, the bed was warm and there were still pleasantly many hours to sleep, and he planned to stay awake enough until Carwood came back from the bathroom so he could pull him close and they could drift off again together.

It was hard to keep track of time when nearly asleep, but more and more of it ticked away anyway. Carwood was taking his time, and there was no sound of running water either, and the longer it was the more Ron wondered about it. 

Eventually so much time had passed that Ron was certain something wasn’t right, and so he got up. The hallway was dark and so was the bathroom, but there was a dim pale light coming from the kitchen. 

The light above the sink was on, and Ron found Carwood sitting by the dining table with his head leaning on his palm and the other hand pressing a bag of frozen peas against his thigh. He was staring ahead and didn’t look up to Ron when he walked into the kitchen.

“Hey,” Ron said quietly and walked up to him. “What’s keeping you up?” 

Carwood didn’t lift his gaze from the tabletop. He was staring ahead with a blank look in his eyes. “I don’t know,” he mumbled. 

Ron approached him carefully and stopped close behind him, but not out of sight. “Did something wake you?”

Carwood adjusted the pea bag as if that was an answer. “I don’t know. It just hurts again.” 

“Uh-huh. How are you feeling otherwise?” 

“I don’t know,” Carwood said again and harshly rubbed the heel of his palm over his eye. “Tired, I guess.” 

That was given, in the middle of the night during a work week. Ron didn’t say anything about it. “Did you have a dream?” 

Carwood pressed the pea bag against the long since healed wound and gave a wrung-out sigh. “I don’t know.” 

Slowly and gently Ron set his hands on Carwood’s shoulders and started to massage them. He kneaded the strained muscles in slow and firm movements, squeezing and rubbing until he felt the tension start to drain and heard Carwood’s breath turn deep and smooth. 

Finally Carwood’s head tipped back and he looked up at Ron. “I’m sorry that I woke you again.” 

Ron leaned down to press a kiss on his forehead. “I woke myself up,” he told him. “Would you come back to bed now? It’s dry, soft and very warm in there.” 

Carwood didn’t answer, but he handed the pea bag over to Ron who tossed it to the sink. Carwood limped the whole way back to the bedroom, but back in bed under the covers he didn’t shy away from touch.


End file.
